


Piano Man

by FortunesRevolver



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Also what am I even writing?, Brief appearances by Claire and Leon., But I love these two so much., But both technically apply???, F/M, In celebration of the HD re-release or something., Like very brief., RE OTP., Sorry for the double-fandom tag., They need more love., i dunno.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5817427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortunesRevolver/pseuds/FortunesRevolver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She loves the piano, or at least, she’s loved it for almost five years now. The soft, off-key notes of a melody she can’t quite remember linger in the back of her mind had been a small comfort surrounded by horrors that still plagued her dreams and fueled nightmares. It’s been a long time since she’s heard anyone play, and she feels a tug at her chest as she tries to convince herself she hasn’t been avoiding it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piano Man

If she were honest with herself, Rebecca didn’t know why she stood outside a bar with her back to the sunset and a jacket hanging loosely off her lithe form. Drinking was not an activity she took part in often; the bitter tang of alcohol didn’t suit her tastes, but an overly enthusiastic Claire had _insisted_ she go. So here she was; chilly and as bemused as the moment Leon had ushered her into the helicopter with a nonchalant shrug, but that subtle, knowing look in his eyes.

All of her questions had ultimately been ignored, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that she trusted the two of them -- and the dramatic story Claire had woven about how many _favours_ she’d pulled for this and how Rebecca just _couldn’t_ walk away from this -- she likely would have tried to slip out of it. But, as Claire and a surprising number of others pointed out, it had been a while since she’d allowed herself any sort of vacation, and that it was fully deserved. There would be no outbreaks, and if there were, they had multiple ways to get her back at the drop of a hat -- something that _would not happen._

And thus, Rebecca found herself standing outside a bar she’d never heard of more than a few cities away from where she lived.

It was all very strange, but she’d faced stranger, and with a heavy sigh, she draws her jacket closer and steps inside.

* * *

 

The first thing she notices is how clean the interior is. The town itself is very old, its age shown in layers of dirt and peeling paint on the faces of buildings that stood long before she was born. Inside, the wooden floor has worn stains from countless boots and the photos are faded, but the lights are fresh and the atmosphere homely. The aged wood of the tables and stools are well-kept and welcoming, inviting customers to settle down and lighten their load.

It’s surprising, she thinks, and a stark contrast to what she is used to when buildings are run down. There’s no shattered windows or splintered floors, and grime stains that leave her stomach churning. Nothing is broken; no pieces of statues or displays left on the floor to rot and the furniture is all right-side up. The air is clean and smells fresh, with an undertone of mixed drinks and beers, and a distinct musty smell that comes with the passage of time.

The bartender stands behind the bar and wipes at a glass quietly. He raises his head and offers her a faint smile in greeting, then returns to his task. She can just make out the low murmur of several groups of patrons keeping to themselves along the wall, but their conversation is drawn out by the melody of the baby grand in the corner.

Slow and entrancing, the notes blend together and urge Rebecca forward. It sounds familiar, oh so familiar, and she is unable to resist their pull. Her body seems to move without thought, weaving in and out of chairs toward the smallest table a few short paces from the piano. It doesn’t strike her how bizarre the occurrence is until she sits down, but the thought is lost with the bridge as chills race up and down her spine.

The music rack blocks most of the player’s body and the top board obscures his face, but she can still make out the clear sway of broad shoulders as they sway with the music. The light is dim over the player, likely to keep them cool, with only a small spotlight focused on the sheet music. Every few moments, Rebecca catches a glimpse of a strong, square chin with the beginnings of stubble -- the workings of a handsome face, she imagines, but doesn’t linger on the idea.

Her focus shifts to the wall nearest her, drifting between frames with an absent mind and muddled thoughts. She loves the piano, or at least, she’s loved it for almost five years now. The soft, off-key notes of a melody she can’t quite remember that linger in the back of her mind had been a small comfort surrounded by horrors that still plagued her dreams and fueled nightmares. It’s been a long time since she’s heard anyone play, and she feels a tug at her chest as she tries to convince herself she hasn’t been avoiding it.

Lost in her thoughts, Rebecca doesn’t notice the music has stopped until her table shifts. On reflex, her body tenses, hand flying to her hip only to grasp at open air. She hadn’t brought a firearm with her. A dagger waits faithfully under the fabric of her pants against the side of her calf, but reaching for it now is pointless. She doesn’t _need_ to reach for it. No one is going to attack her, no one is going to bite, and her flesh isn’t the most appetizing meal around.

“Hey there, doll-face.”

It’s like being doused cold water. Rebecca’s attention snaps to the speaker standing at the other side of her table and doesn’t dare allow herself to meet their face. Not yet. The suit they wear is unfamiliar; navy blue and made of a soft material, with an almost tacky silk shirt of muted gold that somehow manages to compliment the sharp collar bones peering out of the low-buttoned collar. Broad shoulders extend outward and lead to thick, muscular arms, but she forces herself to look upward. She’s had this disappointment before -- raised her gaze only to open her eyes to the darkness of her own room. It raises a faint bitterness in the back of her throat, and she wants to let is pass once again, but her breath catches in her throat as a familiar grin meets her startled gaze.

The shades, for her, are useless. She doesn’t need clear eyes or a sleeveless shirt to remember that face; that _voice_.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Cool, calm, and deep, just as she remembers. The sunglasses slide down, and eyes as deep and vast as the sea peer over the rim with the same playful warmth as the day she last saw them.

Something in Rebecca’s chest warms and she nods, oblivious to the wide smile that has spread over her face as she pushes on the surface of the table and stands. The pianist watches her with silent curiosity and raises a tanned hand in offering and she takes it without hesitation.

Strong fingers curl around her hand and it feels like being truly grounded in the first time since she made her way down the cliffside to return to the mansion of horrors. It’s like an itch she can finally scratch, or finally catching a glimpse of a colour she’s always seen out of the corner of her eye.

Life was easy enough without it, of course, but it didn’t stop the feeling that _something_ was off. Like she was a circle being pushed through a square -- easy enough to handle and no damage was done, but the corners were still left empty and while they didn’t _need_ to be filled, she _wanted_ them to be. She’d had plenty of things that had, brief and lasting, but none of them seemed to settle just right; not like this.

“I’d like that,” she replies, and earns an airy laugh in response. It’s slight, very slight, but she feels the tremble of their hand and knows all too well the nervous feeling of uncertainty. “I’d really like that… Billy.”

* * *

A/N: Dropping the notes here because of that glitch I don't think has been fixed yet.

I love this ship. Like burning. Maybe not SoujiNaoto or SorMik status, but if I could have a canon pairing in the series, this is where I'd jump.

Anyway, this started up because I ~~conned~~ convinced a friend to watch a walk-through of the HD remaster and the Umbrella Chronicles story for these two and got him aboard the ship. I've had this idea for years and never actually put it to words it until now, because what better timing?

~~I don't actually remember if Rebecca was in the room with Billy when he opened the secret door, but... Artistic liberties.~~

~~Also they had radios so meh.~~

  



End file.
